


Infection

by Lady of Prompts (Aethelflaed)



Series: BINGO [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blood, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Happy Ending, He's just really bad at showing it sometimes, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Near Death, Prompt Fic, Scared Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), Whump, Ze/Zir Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), but it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26364100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Lady%20of%20Prompts
Summary: It was the perfect plan.Any time Crowley needed a break from work, just claim he was thwarted by Aziraphale. Build up the rumors of the angel's terrifying strength and power, and no one in Hell would think twice about a few missed assignments.Until a group of demons took matters into their own hands, and left Aziraphale with a mortal wound.Can Crowley find him before the demonic toxin destroys Aziraphale's soul?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BINGO [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017241
Comments: 21
Kudos: 209
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale, Kisses Bingo, My faves - Good Omens Whump





	Infection

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kisses_Bingo event, prompt: Wrist Kiss/Patching Up A Wound. I saw the opportunity for some hurt/comfort and ran with it as far as I could.

Aziraphale spread his hands before him, still steaming lightly from the heat of the holy blasts he’d thrown at the demons.

The last assault had been enough. They fled now, finally, five dark shapes vanishing into soil that still glowed in the aftermath of his counterstrike.

He waited, tense, jaw clenched, expression cold, remaining alert until the dark stain of their infernal presence had dissipated entirely from his mind.

Then, only then, did he lower his hands to the wound in his side.

“Oh,” he murmured, as his fingers slid through the rents in the fabric of his tunic. Three gashes, deep, slick with blood. “That’s…a bit worse than I thought…” He probed, pressing harder, and the pain lanced through him, burning, tearing. Something sharp in his stomach, another pain racing across his chest and shoulder. He gasped, then doubled over, coughing, retching.

Not good. His power reserves were low, but if he didn’t heal that quickly, this body would surely break down. Discorporation, not to mention some uncomfortable questions from disapproving superiors.

He tried to focus on his trembling hand, blinking his eyes to clear them as the world fuzzed and sharpened again. In the predawn light he could see the blood, deep red, pooling on his palm, and a thick black cloud spreading through it.

“Oh. Very bad, indeed.” Demonic corruption. Already he could feel it, pollution, contamination seeking out his angelic form on the astral plane. Seeping in like a toxin, corroding the light of his soul. If he didn’t purge it before it took hold, he would face something far worse than discorporation. It might already be too late.

He needed focus. Quiet. A spot to work where the world wasn’t cold…filled with fuzzy mist…the ground not tilting alarmingly back and forth…and…

“Blast.”

He toppled, collapsing onto the dew-speckled grass.

\--

Crowley tore through the forest, ignoring the stinging slap of tree branches, the twisting undergrowth that snared his feet and clothes, trying to slow him down. “Aziraphale!”

Another stream materialized just ahead of him, his feet skidding in the suddenly muddy soil. Unable to stop, he leapt across it like a deer. Nearly made it, but the soft earth on the far side shifted and crumbled beneath him, and he rolled back down the bank, hitting the cold water with a splash.

“Stupid – bloody – _Aziraphale!”_ His voice echoed, unanswered, through the ancient forest.

Somewhere, _somewhere,_ on one of the hills or ridges, or tucked in a hollow, the angel was fighting, injured, needing his help and Crowley had miles and miles still to search and he _didn’t have time for this._

Long fingers sank deep into the mud of the embankment as he began to pull himself out.

\--

It had started, nearly a century ago, with a suggestion in a misty field in Wessex.

 _Be easier if we’d both stayed home._ Not really a well-thought-out proposal, just an idea, a vision blossoming in his mind as his sabatons sank into the English mud. A vision of a little cottage, a roaring fire, and a tall mug of the local brew.

Aziraphale, of course, wasn’t interested. “Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing.” He’d stormed off with all the sanctimonious indignation an angel could carry. “We are not having this conversation. Not another word!”

But he’d certainly followed it up with a scathing letter, ensuring Crowley in the strongest terms that he would never consider such a scheme, that any _cooperation_ on assignments was inconceivable, that he would henceforth devote _all_ his efforts to thwarting any and all of Crowley’s infernal works that he caught wind of, and do his utmost to ensure that all hellish influences were wiped from this peaceful island, nay, this blessed world and all its inhabitants…

Crowley read the letter twice, packed up his camp, and headed for London.

Once he’d ditched the armor for proper, comfortable clothes, no one would ever think to connect the sophisticated red-haired traveler with the dreaded Black Knight. Before long, he was settled into an alehouse, feet resting comfortably on a bench by the fire, entertaining the masses with tales of an immortal warrior dressed all in black, leading raids against villages somewhere to the north.

Within a few weeks, rumors reached him of Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table and his band of holy knights scouring Mercia and Northumbria for signs of the Black Knight. Crowley threw back another mug of ale and switched to stories about the rebel band joining forces with invaders in the south, making sure to include just enough tantalizing details to keep the angel on a wild goose chase for months.

When next Hell checked in, he shrugged ruefully and explained that Heaven’s agent (a fierce and terrifying opponent who could overpower even a Lord of Hell) had gotten wind of their plans and stopped him at every turn; but that Crowley (a cunning and devious force for evil who deserved a commendation and a promotion) had in turn prevented the angel from pursuing Heaven’s larger agenda. Add to that some gossip about the queen he’d picked up from travelers out of Camelot (broadly suggesting it was somehow his own doing), and he confidently declared his mission to the island an overall success.

And, incredibly, _they bought it._

A very neat solution, Crowley thought several decades later as he lounged by the Mediterranean, sunning himself on a rock as he thoroughly explored the latest developments in viticulture and winemaking. That monastery by the bend in the river had managed some particularly intriguing flavors; much more subtle than the vinegar-and-salt-water wine from the heyday of Rome. He wondered idly what the best way to include “convincing monks to sell wine to a representative of Hell” in his next report. It sounded like an appropriately demonic activity.

Half the continent swirled with tales of a terrifying monster, ravaging the villages, fighting endless battles against a warrior of light – based entirely on stories he’d flat-out invented, and allowed to grow and expand with each retelling. In the last year, seven different noble warriors – three armed with holy weapons that could only have been blessed by Aziraphale himself – had come in search of the beast, and Crowley had gleefully sent each to a different corner of the world.

He slid along the rock, dipping his toes into the calm, blue waters. It was the perfect day for a swim; and perhaps he’d encounter some humans walking along the shoreline, and tell them about the horrifying creatures that congregated in the nearby caves, plotting to bring chaos to the kingdom. Always a good rumor, that; it could be interpreted so many ways.

The best part of it all was, everybody won. Crowley’s reputation was surging Down Below as tales of his narrow escapes and subtle plots grew; Aziraphale got to parade around with his agents as self-righteously as he pleased, the sanctimonious bastard; Heaven and Hell took credit for whatever developments they wished.

What could possibly go wrong?

\--

“…which kept me from _directly_ joining the emperor’s invasion of Armenia, as originally instructed, but by staying in Constantinople, I contributed to the corruption of countless aristocrats.” As if the so-called _nobility_ ever needed help becoming corrupt, but it was the sort of result Hell liked. He liked to toss it into his reports as an easy bonus.

Beelzebub glared down through the cloud of flies; as always, Crowley wondered if ze believed a word he said. It was impossible to tell, really. The Prince of Hell’s expression never wavered. “Tell me where you were szupposed to go next.”

“Ah, you know. Another court. Other side of the world. Um.” Crowley clicked his fingers, searching for the name.

“Dagobert, king of Austrasia, heir to the throne of all the Franks,” Dagon interrupted, grinning with far too many teeth. “You should have been there weeks ago.”

“Yeah, that’s – sounds like the one.” Dagon, on the other hand, never seemed to _quite_ buy his stories, but also rarely spoke up unless there was an obvious contradiction. “And I was well on my way – you know, thousands of miles to cross, but I was looking forward to it. Researching. Preparing for my role.”

After all, the Franks allegedly had the best grape wine in the world, and he would need to be sure to hit all the best vineyards to test that for himself. Only, as he was traveling, he learned that the people of the north had done some interesting things with fruit wines, and over in Bohemia they’d started experimenting with hops in their beer instead of gruit, and really Crowley needed to give these developments his full attention.

“And?” Beelzebub barely spared him a glance.

“And, well, turned out that angel was still on my tail. Following my every move. I had to change my route to throw him off. But I had a plan. Set a trap for him in the northern forests. There was a great battle – barely escaped with my skin intact – but he won’t recover fast from the wounds I gave him.”

Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale in-person since their argument in that Wessex field, but he always knew where the angel was. Thanks largely to the many, many rumors of his devious activities he’d left for Aziraphale to chase after – it was a game at this point, dropping them like breadcrumbs all up and down the continent, co-opting local legends to give them an extra kick. Even Dagon barely did anything to verify his claims.

She glared at him now, though. “Last time you said he’d never walk again.”

“Did I?” Well, he did get carried away sometimes. “Right. Well. He healed more quickly than expected. Blasted angel.”

“You should have infected him,” Dagon snapped. “That would put an end to all this.”

Crowley ran his tongue over his teeth. Angels could bestow their Grace on humans, siphoning a little off to grant blessings, strength, healing, and clarity. But to demons – the remains of their Grace twisted and tainted by the Fall – spreading it to another had very different results. Infected humans were more open to suggestion, temptation, even possession. As for angels, the touch of demonic corruption ate away at their true self, as holy water destroyed a demon’s. Only more slowly. More painfully.

Most demons could spread their tainted Grace through their nails or claws, but Crowley – serpent that he was – carried it in his fangs. He hated using it, not just because it was difficult to do, but it felt like…cheating. Cruelty. Not his style. In four and a half millennia, he’d only ever attempted it in truly dire emergencies, and even then, he regretted it.

Not that he could tell his superiors that. “Well, ah, I did. Pumped him full of it. Only, you know, Aziraphale – he’s impossibly strong. Shrugs off everything I give him.”

Dagon’s grin only grew wider. “Good thing we sent a team, then.”

“A…a team?”

“After hearing your reports, Hastur and Ligur volunteered to take on the angel themselves. Took a few of our best fighters as back up.”

“Oh.” Crowley stomach dropped to the nineth circle and kept falling. “And, ah, when, exactly, when did they leave?”

“Two daysz ago,” Beelzebub interrupted. “Ligur reported to me momentsz before you came in. They’ve tracked the angel down, and are ambushing him asz we szpeak.” For once, the Prince of Hell shifted forward, scrutinizing Crowley with unreadable eyes glittering in the dark.

“Oh. Well. Good for them. Ngk. Glad they can…glad to see…”

He clenched his jaw before his teeth could start chattering, panic threatening to overtake him. Aziraphale _could_ fight, couldn’t he? Yes, he was a Guardian, but – Crowley was suddenly, uncomfortably aware that the angel hadn’t carried a weapon since Eden. Swallowing his fears down, he tried again. “I mean. After all the times I’ve been thwarted by Heaven’s greatest warrior, I’m glad he’ll finally get what’s coming to him.” He tossed his head. “Any chance I could join up? I’d love to witness this glorious…victory for our side.”

Crowley waited an eternity, pinned between the sadistic gleam of Dagon’s eyes and the inscrutable calm of Beelzebub’s. His fist tightened, nails digging into his palm, but his knees didn’t tremble and his grin – charm and confidence and just the right amount of cockiness – never wavered a bit.

The game wouldn’t exist for another twelve centuries, but Crowley had already perfected his poker face.

Finally, finally, Beelzebub nodded. “It might be too late. Catch up if you can.”

\--

The Germanic forest seemed to stretch on forever, rocky ledges giving way to soggy river land and back again. Humans lived here – humans lived everywhere – but none for miles in every direction. Not even a road. The night was silent as the grave, completely still, even the stars shrouded in clouds.

Crowley crept along quietly, looking for any sign of the demons’ passing, listening for sounds of battle. He could sense them – somewhere – not close, but not far. He had a plan. Keep up his cover as an interested observer, find some way to derail the fight before it got dangerous. Simple.

Except he couldn’t _find_ them, not one trace. And as the hours passed, his façade began to slip, worry bubbling to the surface. Had they deceived him? Sent him to the wrong part of the forest? Shielded themselves somehow? No, obviously, they were laying an ambush, of course they were shielded, but then how was he supposed to _find them?_

Which was when the shadow of the other demons in his mind surged, grew stronger, clashed against something not at all demonic – and rapidly faded. An attack and a departure. They’d done their work, and now…

He flung all caution to the winds, racing through the forest like a hunted deer, calling the angel’s name again and again. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe they suspected him, maybe they hoped to see him slip up.

Or maybe they’d already killed Aziraphale. And it would be all his fault.

He pulled himself out of the muddy stream just as the sun rose, and that’s when he felt it – the faintest hint of angelic presence. Ahead and to the left. “I’m coming,” he whispered, voice to thick to shout. “Hang on, Angel, just a little longer. I’m coming.”

It took another half-hour before he found the clearing, bursting out of the trees to see ground burned black, twisted and churned in a ring large as a basilica. There, in the center, a circle of grass perfectly green, untouched, and lying motionlessly in it, a single white figure.

“Aziraphale!”

The ruined ground was hot on his feet, like hallowed ground, but he raced across it without a second thought, collapsing onto the grass. No, not perfectly green. It was soaked with blood, too much blood, seeping into the ground. And everywhere it pooled, red turned black before his eyes.

“No, no, no, no.” He touched Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the angel rolled, flopping bonelessly onto his side. Eyes shut, chest still. “Aziraphale, please!”

Back in Wessex, they’d both been dressed in sixty pounds of armor, Aziraphale’s surely blessed for extra protection. Crowley had imagined him that way, a powerful knight, galivanting across the continent, spoiling for a fight, or at least an argument. But now he wore the simple clothes of a traveler, and his pale blue tunic was shredded to reveal three deep lines carved into the flesh of his side. A bag lay beside him, a few scrolls neatly stored inside, while fruits and loaves of bread spilled across the grass, alongside jars of alcohol, oil, and honey.

Crowley was reminded again of the smiling face that had approached him in a Roman bar, wanting nothing more than to share a few words and brighten his day. Not an agent of Heaven pursuing an agenda, just a friendly being who saw the good in everyone and now…now…

He stirred, eyes fluttering for a second, lips moving weakly. “C…Crowley?”

“Yes! I’m here.” He touched Aziraphale’s forehead – burning hot, feverish.

“Looking…for…Crowley…”

“Don’t try to talk.” He wedged one arm under Aziraphale, lifting his head to rest on his own shoulder, cradling the angel in his arms. “I’ve got you now.”

“Certainly…” Aziraphale’s mouth worked, silently. Oh, Satan, he was shivering. Was that bad? It had to be bad. “Got me…clever trap…”

“I…Aziraphale, I didn’t know…I swear, I never thought…” He was getting paler every second. There wasn’t _time._ “I’ve got you, alright? I’ve got you.” He braced the angel against his chest with his right arm, left hand cautiously reaching for the deep cuts on Aziraphale’s side. They weren’t bleeding all that much. Because they were healing? Or because he was running out of blood? “This might hurt.”

“Hurts…so much…”

Crowley rested his fingers against the cuts, and Aziraphale immediately gasped, sounding too weak to draw breath. “I know, I know.” He pressed his cheek against the sweat-soaked forehead and closed his eyes, focusing away from the physical plane.

Immediately, he could see…nothing. Where there should have been the blinding light of Aziraphale’s true form, there was only darkness. A sea of green-black energy, coiled in on itself, pulsating, growing.

He’d thought to draw the toxin back out, trusting his own demonic nature to shield him from the worst of it. But it was too late. Already the corruption had infected Aziraphale’s Grace, turning it…necrotic.

It was devouring him. Smothering him. Killing him.

“Crowley…I…I…”

“I told you, don’t talk.” Crowley’s face felt wet. Without thinking, he wiped his cheeks, leaving smears of angel blood under both eyes. “I…I can do this…”

Bracing himself, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s side, digging his fingers into the cuts, pressing Aziraphale against him as the angel arched his back, crying out in pain, voice breaking –

Crowley waded into the black mass, searching.

It sucked at his feet like a bog, and smelled even worse. With every step it grew deeper, thicker, coagulating around his legs. Not a coincidence. It was trying to hold him back, or pull him down, stinging at his bare flesh wherever it could.

At last he saw – there – near the center of the twisted mass of decay. A single ember still flickered fitfully, just below the surface of the morass. Growing weaker all the time.

He struggled forward, as the dark energy all but solidified, tendrils reaching up to pluck at his tunic and belt. Crowley slapped one away, and it burned like sulfur, leaving a swollen welt across his palm, but also enough space to push forward and – _yes –_ there was the spark, just ahead of him, drifting down into the darkness.

He plunged his hands in, not even caring as the corruption seethed and boiled, scalding his flesh, melting it bit by bit. He cupped his hands together, cradled that tiny white glow, and lifted it free from the sea of death.

A single brilliant gemstone, not even strong enough to burn him – all that was left of Aziraphale. Green slime clung to it, stretching back to the larger mass, keeping it connected, eating away at it. More formed around them, reaching up to snatch back the treasure he held.

“Angel, Aziraphale, please…” But at the brush of his breath, the light stuttered, nearly extinguished.

Of course. Angel, demon – incompatible.

A black coil snagged his wrist, searching, crawling towards the light.

“No,” Crowley snarled, clutching Aziraphale’s soul in his other hand. “I won’t let you have him!” He closed his fingers carefully around the last fragment of Grace, held it above his head, even as the corruption around him surged in waves, undertow trying to pull his feet out from under him. “You’re messing with the wrong bloody demon.”

He twisted his arm around the coil of power, wrapping his wrist and hand, as if anchoring himself with a rope. Tried to ignore the pain. Damage to his material form didn’t matter. Demons could heal anything, given enough time. Besides, what happened next would be much worse.

Crowley relaxed his arm, letting it become insubstantial as mist. Exposing his true form to the toxins of a strange demon. The darkness sank into him.

And ignited like potassium in water.

He growled with the pain, but there wasn’t time for that. The light in his hand was _dying._ He took hold of the corruption and _pulled._

It _poured_ into him.

Back on the physical plane, he writhed and screamed, body convulsing as his veins filled with fire and ice. His corporation would burst, his true form would be shredded to pieces under the pressure.

He very nearly dropped Aziraphale, almost broke the connection on the physical plane; worse, almost let the precious light fall back into the hungry black chaos.

But however much Crowley hurt, Aziraphale must feel it tenfold. Yet he lay there, utterly silent.

And that terrified Crowley more than anything.

_Hang on, Angel. Just a little more…_

His body and form strained against each other, ready to split apart, to split himself in two, connection only maintained through his grip on that dark energy, taut as a bowstring even as he pulled it into himself—

_POP!_

The last of the infection broke free of Aziraphale, snapped into Crowley, leaving the astral plane around him barren but clean.

He collapsed, hovering in the middle of the void, skin swollen grey from the effort of holding it all in.

Carefully, so carefully, he released the last glowing fleck of Aziraphale’s soul, setting it to float free, to build its internal fires again.

“You…” he sucked in a breath against the pain. “You’re alright now. Just rest…”

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open, back in reality. Body clammy with sweat, every joint and organ burning with pain. He scrambled away from the angel to the edge of the grass, bent over – coughed – heaved – and retched out gallons of boiling black vapor. It steamed out of him, swept away by the wind, dissipating in the morning light.

He collapsed, empty again, arms and legs trembling from the effort of holding himself up. His hands were covered with burn scars – webs of pale lines under the drying blood, oddly numb to the touch.

Blood coated his face, dry and flaking except two wet channels under his eyes.

With a few more weak coughs, he crawled back to Aziraphale. The wound in his side was bright red, no sign of the dark corruption that had nearly killed him. But the angel still twitched and jerked fitfully, his skin fever-hot. Demonic infection gone, but a mundane, earthly one had taken its place.

“D’n w’rry, ‘Ng’l,” he muttered, mouth numb with exhaustion. “Jus’ gotta…” He miracled up a length of cloth, almost as long as he was tall, but that was the last of his strength. Healing would be impossible.

He fumbled around in Aziraphale’s bag, finding a jar of Roman-style wine. Alcohol, mixed with vinegar and salt water. He tugged at the seal with his teeth, wax and cloth breaking free, and poured the wine across the angel’s wounds, rinsing them clean. Aziraphale flinched and whimpered, but Crowley held him in place with one hand on his hip.

“Almos’ done.” Remembering something he’d seen humans do in Athens, centuries before, Crowley broke open the jar of honey and smeared it across the gashes, sealing them under a thick, sticky layer.

He hoped it would work. You never really knew with human medicine. “Alrigh’ Angel. Time to…to sit…”

One arm slid under Aziraphale’s shoulders, but his boneless weight was almost enough to pull Crowley down. It took an eternity of wiggling and coaxing to get Aziraphale’s head onto his shoulder again. Then Crowley shook out the cloth and started to wrap it around his middle.

\--

Aziraphale felt a burst of heat, sparking through every part of his body, like he was being boiled alive from the inside out.

Then, just as abruptly, it passed.

He rested against something, sturdy and warm.

His side still ached and burned, but in a distant, fuzzy way. He couldn’t focus on it, but he could feel he gentle pressure of fingers moving here and there.

Wasn’t he supposed to be worried about something? Something important. Yes, he was certain of that. Rather urgent, too.

His eyes felt heavy as the weight of the world, but he forced them open.

A pair of hands, stained red and black, tied a knot in a cloth against his side. They moved slowly, awkwardly, unsure. Stiff, with the scar tissue perhaps, or something else. Breath stirred through his hair, sounding heavy, laden. Tired.

Aziraphale tried to tip his head back. He was leaning against someone. But his neck just rolled a little, and all he found was an expanse of impossibly black fabric. “C…row…ley?”

“Nh. Told you…” The body behind him shifted, and Aziraphale lost all track of his surroundings. When the white mist in his eyes cleared, he was lying on soft grass. One hand brushed across his forehead, pushing away the sticky curls. A cool breeze prickled across his skin. “Better?”

A face above him, fuzzing in and out of focus. Red hair. Narrow face. Streaked with blood. “You…” Aziraphale tried to lift his heavy arm, to reach for the already-fading figure. “You’re hurt…”

“Nah.” The dim shape scrubbed at his face, apparently not noticing the blood. Had Aziraphale imagined it? And that the figure’s eyes were solid gold? “M’fine. Jus’ rest.”

“No…I was…” his hand managed to reach his own side. “Toxin…bleeding…” Where had this cloth come from? Ah. Right.

“Don’ worry. All better.”

Better? Impossible. Nothing in Heaven or Earth could heal demonic corruption once it took hold.

Unless he’d dreamt that, too.

Perhaps he was dreaming still.

With the help of a hand on his back, Aziraphale rolled onto his uninjured side. There was a frightful chill. He tried to curl up, but it just pulled at his wound painfully. “Nf,” he managed. Not even the energy to cry out.

“Cold?”

“Y’s.”

A moment later, everything melted away, except for a warm pressure against his back, a light touch resting protectively on his hip. “Got you,” the voice whispered, a gentle brush of air across his ear. Then a sharp _snap,_ a dark blanket draping over him, shielding him from the wind and sun. “S’good. Sleep now.”

“Can’t,” Aziraphale objected. “I never…”

\--

With a sharp breath, Aziraphale woke up. For a moment, he was disoriented – it was dark, everything tilted and strange – but, no: black sheets, grey walls, a few books resting on the bedside table near a mug of tea, still lightly steaming. Crowley’s flat. The bedroom. Which meant that the arms gently wrapped around his chest, the body pressed against his back, and the face nuzzling his shoulder…

“Mhf. ‘Wake already?”

“Sorry, my dear fellow. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“S’fine.” Crowley shifted, bringing his chin up to Aziraphale’s shoulder, wriggling his body into a more comfortable position.

“I’m still not used to sleeping.” He doubted he’d been out for more than an hour. “Not sure I’ll ever quite get the knack.”

“Told you. S’fine.” By the thickness of Crowley’s voice, Aziraphale could tell he had no intention of waking up fully. “You wanna read now?”

“Not just yet.” He patted Crowley’s arm and leaned into his embrace, feeling lips brush absently against the back of his neck. “I think I dreamt this time.”

“Really?” He could hear the grin in Crowley’s voice, feel it pressed against his skin. “Thassa first. Dream ‘bout me?”

“You know, I rather think I did. We were in a field…”

“Hmmm. Picnic?”

But Aziraphale’s smile faded as he recalled the details. “Your hands were…they were red. And I was in pain, so much pain. Crowley. I think it was…” Without realizing it, his hand pressed against the three scars on his side. “I think it was when I…”

The comfortable post-sleep haze shattered. Aziraphale was wide awake, alert, heart thundering as if to beak free. All in a moment it came back to him, crystal clear even after fourteen hundred years: the attack – the struggle for his life – the wound – waking up, a week later, in a dying field. Weak, hungry. Alone.

He was never sure how much of what he remembered was a fever dream. The demons had attacked, and retreated, and then he’d fainted before properly examining his wounds. Someone had cleaned and bound them, and then left. The cloth had been soaked with dried blood when he regained consciousness. It had never been changed.

He’d next seen Crowley thirty years later, scowling across a cup of wine. Aziraphale alluded to the attack – Crowley growled _learn to take better care of yourself –_ and they never spoke on it again.

Never a hint of why the forces of Hell had ambushed him, or why they never returned. Or if Crowley had really been there to heal him afterwards.

He hesitated to mention it now.

But Crowley’s fingers glided down his arm, twining with his, pressing lightly into the scars as if to ensure they were fully healed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I…I mean…it wasn’t the attack, though it felt recent. As if I’d fought them off only moments before.” Aziraphale shuddered at the memory: five demons, bursting out of the woods, claws and fangs and… “No, it was…pleasant, actually. I dreamt you were there. Afterwards. Taking care of me.”

He carefully kept the question out of his voice.

“Oh.” A pause, and then, softer, “Oh.”

“You dressed my wound. Talked to me. And…and held me. Just like this.” He tugged Crowley’s arm across his chest again. “Stayed with me until I woke up.” His fingers played around Crowley’s, massaging the knuckles. “I…ah…back then…I always wondered…”

“Yeah. That was…yeah. It was me.”

Aziraphale nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat, and brough Crowley’s fingers to his lips. How strange, to finally know after all this time. It shouldn’t have affected him, brought tears to his eyes, but, oh…oh…

“Thank you,” he whispered when he could speak again. Another kiss into Crowley’s palm. “I…I’m glad you were there.” More kisses, trailing to his wrist.

“Didn’t stay.” There was no mistaking the regret in his voice.

“Oh, no, I know you couldn’t.” Another kiss to the wrist. “It was a different time… _we_ were different and…just that you stayed long enough to…to prevent my discorporation…truly, thank you.”

If anything, Crowley grew more tense. Aziraphale tried a teasing tone instead. “You know, I wondered if it was you. Thought it couldn’t possibly be. Why would a demon help an angel his own side left for dead?” Ah. That wasn’t funny at all, was it? He continued, more serious, “I…I don’t wonder anymore. I know why.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, you silly old thing. _Yes._ I was quite fond of you, too, you know, even back then. Didn’t trust you, I’ll admit, and I very much wanted to throw you off a cliff for your…absurd pranks.” He smiled in memory, remembering how the rumors of Crowley’s increasingly unbelievable exploits used to taunt him. “And, well, I would have done the same for you, if you ever needed it. Without hesitation.”

He lay there a moment longer, in the warm circle of Crowley’s arm. “I…don’t think I’ve ever told you…how very safe you make me feel.” Aziraphale turned over, just enough to meet Crowley’s eyes, expecting them to be warm and soft. Instead, they were filled with pain. Aziraphale quickly reached up, cradling a face wet with tears. “Crowley! Darling, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“It…it was my fault.”

“What?” The words slid down his spine like ice. Aziraphale scrambled to sit up. “No, it’s not your fault. How could – it was Hastur and – and those other demons. They attacked me, not – I don’t know why they suddenly decided…ah.” Suddenly, the picture became clear. “You mentioned me?”

“More than that.” A tear ran down Crowley’s face, dropping unheeded between them. “I…I thought I was so clever. If I didn’t want to do a job, just say you stopped me.” He sniffed. “Told them how…how fierce you are. Fearless. Strong. And you _are.”_ His eyes pleaded. “I wanted them to – to think you were a-a-a worthy opponent…”

“And they decided to eliminate me.” His thumb brushed the tear track from Crowley’s cheek. “My love, no, it wasn’t your fault. I’m sure I gave Hell plenty of reasons on my own. You weren’t their only agent on earth in those days, and the rest were certainly not as fond of oyster dinners.”

“They wouldn’t have sent _five demons_ if—”

“You don’t know that.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek. “And, in any case, it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Grateful as I am for your help, I was _fine._ Really, my injury looked much worse than it was.”

But Crowley shook his head. “Angel. You…almost died.”

“What? No, don’t be…” He remembered hands, covered in red blood, white scars, and something black.

“I pulled the toxin out of you. I – I held your soul in my hand. It was almost gone.” The tears started again. “You were almost gone. I…a few minutes later and…” His voice broke.

“That’s…If that’s true…Crowley, you can’t remove the toxin once it’s set in. Everyone knows…”

“Didn’t know that,” he mumbled. “Just…I couldn’t lose you.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley against his chest, felt the long arms twist around him, tight as only a serpent’s embrace could be.

“I stayed as long as I could. I swear.” Crowley shuddered, trembling. “Til sunset. They came back. More of them. So many…”

Fear boiled through Aziraphale, as if Crowley’s words could summon the demons into their bedroom. _Calm down. This already happened. Centuries ago._ “What…what did you…”

“Told you. I left.” His voice cracked under the strain. “When I felt them coming. I just…abandoned you. Led them on a chase. Told them you’d attacked me. Had reinforcements. Everything I could think of. I was all…scars and blood and…they believed me. Gave up. And I went back with them. Left you there.”

“Crowley. Look at me.” He pushed the demon back until he could meet his eyes. _“Thank you.”_ Crowley started to shake his head, but Aziraphale stopped him with a firm hand on his cheek. “No. Don’t blame yourself. I was in no condition to fight, even if you could have woken me. And I would _never_ ask you to fight a horde of demons. They could have destroyed you, or—” He bit his lip, not wanting to think about the possibilities. “Yes, you left me. And by doing that, you _saved_ me.” His hand ran down Crowley’s face. “And, more importantly, you saved my best friend.” He leaned close, kissed Crowley lightly on the lips. “So. Thank you.”

“I wanted to stay.”

“I know. I wanted you to, as well.” His fingers sought Crowley’s, twined around them, squeezed. “And now you can. You understand? We both – we did what we had to then, so we can be together now.”

Crowley nodded, not looking convinced. Aziraphale sighed. “I wasn’t always a saint to you, dear. But you forgive me, don’t you?” He brought Crowley’s hand up to rest on his cheek. “And I forgive you. For everything. No matter what, it brought us together.”

Crowley bowed his head, pressing his lips into Aziraphale’s hair.

“And I assume,” Aziraphale continued, “that I have you to thank that they never tried again?”

“Well,” Crowley said slowly, a bit of his old carefree charm creeping back into his voice. “After I told them you shook off the infection, they weren’t in a rush to try again. Added a few other details. Might have said you breathed fire. I get carried away.”

“Oh, do you?” Aziraphale tilted his head back, smiling. “That might get you into trouble someday.”

“Nah.” And there it was – that reckless grin Aziraphale adored so much. “I was a legend. Only demon to ever face _you_ and walk away unscathed. Even Hastur was terrified of you! Dagon had me develop a whole training course on angelic combat.”

Aziraphale threw back his head and laughed. “They thought _you_ could beat _me?”_

“Oi! Mind who you’re mocking. I am the Serpent of Eden, Hell’s fiercest and most effective agent!”

“Only because you _lie_ about everything!”

“Oh! You!” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pressing him into the pillow, laughing just as hard. “You _invented_ lying! To God!” His lips brushed Aziraphale’s ear, but it was a serious voice that whispered, “I will always protect you, Angel.”

“I know.” He kissed Crowley’s jaw. “Thank you.”

Azirapahle rolled onto his side again, welcoming the press of Crowley against his back, the long fingers resting protectively on the curve of his hip. With a snap, a pitch-black wing emerged, covering them both in a feathery cocoon. Just like in his dream.

There, in the embrace of his demon, Aziraphale felt safe, and warm, and welcome, all the things he’d never expected to feel.

Whatever came next, they were together. And they would be, forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I promise, they're gonna be ok...
> 
> For those wondering, "gruit" was not a typo - its an herb that was used to bitter and flavor beer in the middle ages, seen mostly in the region of the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany; other regions used other spices as well, until hops replaced nearly all of them. It's a bit anachronistic (we see the first mention of hops in the 11th century, and the transition took hundreds of years) but there aren't a lot of detailed records from the 7th century, so I had to make do!
> 
> I have a few more kisses fics I'll try to get up this week, and yes, you can probably expect some more angst. In the mean time, thank you again for reading, let me know what you think!


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